


Senbonzakura(in)

by akaashiinperiodclothing (sirbeatrix)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cherry Blossoms, Established Relationship, Fantasy, M/M, Requited Love, Surrealism, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 09:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14422869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirbeatrix/pseuds/akaashiinperiodclothing
Summary: Cherry blossoms begin to follow Akaashi around. It's a problem. Written in Akaashi's first person POV.





	Senbonzakura(in)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading.

The first time they fall on me, I chalk it up to nationalism.

Cherry blossoms became a militaristic symbol of our country as a result of the second world war. My mother always takes an extended amount of time to stand beneath the rows of trees nearest our apartment building during the Hanami season, honoring my great uncle, Toyohisa, a Kamikaze pilot. This year proves no different. Standing beneath the cascading blossoms, a wistful look haunts her face. Tears burn in my eyes.

"Uhm, Keiji nii-san, you better look up."

Her eyes widening, my twin sister Kotone points one sparkling finger above my head. Instinctively, I duck, covering my head with my arms as a downpour of cherry blossoms flutters down my head. Clucking, my father shakes his head.

"People mourn in the strangest ways," he says. Scratching his shaven head, his glasses steam up with mirth.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Father."

That's where we leave it. For the rest of the day, my sister's stare suffuses my skin with the sensation of one thousand ants scaling my arms. I'm staring at myself staring at myself.

* * *

 

During volleyball practice the next day, I struggle to convince myself it's nerves.

We're kicking butt; I'm tossing with the effortless trust I've cherished in Bokuto longer than the Milky Way. In return, he's soaring on an unstoppable crest of hope. Yet a nagging worry urges me to reconsider, to pull him out of the game and run him through one of our mindful meditation exercises. At this point, though, our coping invention for his benefit helps me more than him. And that twists my gut.

As though my worries have taken the hint, a wrenching cough issues from Bokuto's lips. With the tortuous slowness of a slow-motion cutscene, I watch him careen into the net.

"Oh hell, stay with me." 

Enveloping him in my arms, my eyes bulge in horror as the familiar rainfall of cherry blossoms spills over our heads.

"If this isn't a Shoujou manga, I'm stumped."

Rolling the ball between his outstretched arms, Konoha squints at me. At times like this, he bears an uncanny resemblance to a traditionally-clad noble in a mindblowingly intricate tapestry from olden times.

"Not one of Nozaki's creations." As one, we turn to Bokuto, his head lolling on my shoulder. Choking out an unfurling pink petal, he runs the stitching of my sleeve between his capable fingers. "Just my boyfriend being himself. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Burrowing my head in his hair, my cheeks inflamed, I sense the tips of my ears reddening. "You, Bokuto-san, are a danger to me and yourself." He smiles. Another petal wedges itself in a tight corner of his lips.

"Aye, but you've conquered this fear, Akaash'." In these moments, I lose all sense of self and long to kiss him until he loses all instinct to breathe.

"Can you give the PDA a rest for one second so Pretty Boy can explain this phenomenon." Dispensing with the ball across the gym, Konoha shooes the rest of our teammates out the double doors with an agitated hand. Readying his stance in what I have come to know as his "In no way are you finagling yourself outta this one" pose, he fixes me with a glittering scowl.

"I'm grappling with the same amount of confusion, Akinori, if not more so," I say.

"You're bad at helping." Striding past me, he's careful not to punt my ass hard enough to trip me. "You're award-winningly bad at breaking up, too, for the record." My stomach lurches. _We'd been dating?_

"You said we were making out until graduation." Startling, Bokuto shoots me a heavy look, his eyes searching.

"What do you think I meant by that?" Turning his head with a sharpness that sends a bloom of pain through my heart, Konoha rakes a shaking hand through his hair. "Sort this bullshit out before the big one with Karasuno, Keiji. I'm not losing you to a fantasy yet." I manage a nod, following the stabbing of his footfalls down the harsh fluorescent corridor.

"He's in you for the long haul." Laughing softly, Bokuto kisses the bulb of my jawbone.

"Don't remind me, you devil." Yanking him by the collar, I ease into an indulgent kiss, my tongue slathering the heat of his mouth. Spluttering, he chokes, fanning a rush of petals from my lips.  _Are you kidding me, universe._

 

"Think we gotta let Coach in on this," Bokuto says. Kneading the deepening ridges of my forehead, he leans in, lips open in an invitation for sweltering devotion. Nudging him back with the pads of my fingertips, I rise with a reluctant crack in my knees.

"How about we give it one more day?" 

His eyes glowing with the hint of a fierce sunset, he laces my hand in his and presses his lips to my knuckle, edging his teeth along the bone with a gentle nibble. "I'll hold you to that, Akaash'."

Massaging my hand through his downy hair, I convince myself I can keep this promise.

* * *

 

Everyone is full of me, and it's not something I can sum up with a textbook case of narcissism; everyone's thinking about me for a specific reason.

Boys outright howl with laugher through their hands. Girls, drilling holes in their feet with their eyes, confess to me with hastily written letters, offering to catch my blossoms in baskets. Some of my teachers stare at me open-mouthed, poised to rebuke me. Their words fade into memory at the realization that reprimanding me over something so utterly absurd helps no one.

My Homeroom teacher, surprising everyone but me, addresses the affliction on the fateful day, the day on which I plan to inform my coach that I cannot play against Karasuno this time, nor any time.

Eying me from the disorganized neatness of her desk over her wire-rims, Kawamura sensei nods once. Though I wish it slipped her mind (like our constant pop quizzes), she has not forgotten the class elected me as their president, my election a constant irritant: cleaning the classroom after school necessitates in my chronic tardiness to practice, on top of Vice President Izana strong-arming me into staying on as his right hand man on the baseball team, on top of it falling on the two of us to pick the locations for our class trips. As far as Izana's concerned, our rendezvous on the pitch paging through ideas count as dates. Maybe I am in fact living in my sister's fujoshi manga.  _Oh, brother._

"All rise," I say, my legs creaking to life.

Gawking at the ceiling, my classmates erupt into babbling incredulity. Almost as though they understand my seething discomfort, the cherry blossoms swirl in tumbling arcs away from my face and out towards the sun-kissed windows.

"Akaashi," Kawamura sensei says, "see me after school."

Her tone brooks no room for argument. At this rate, I'll arrive thirty minutes late to my final practice. Bit by bit, a crushing weight leadens my stomach.

"I'll handle the cleaning today." 

Behind me, Izana taps my shoulder, his fingers straying on the sleeve of my creased white shirt. His nails precede his reputation in their buffed vanity. He looks like a star on a card my grandmother would have carried around in her wallet and swooned over with her friends before declaring her loyalty. If I share this with him, he might misconstrue the meaning of my compliment and kiss me. In this hypothetical scenario, the blossoms might prove more of a help than a hindrance.

Facing him, I say, "You're a good friend, Baseball." He smirks, his dark eyes mocking under thick dark brows.

"Better one than you, to hear Konoha tell it." Of course they're friends. Heck, maybe more at this point. Who knows with Akinori.

"I see you wish to stay behind beyond our meeting, Akaashi," Kawamura sensei says. Jolting from my chair, I bow, nearly vertical. Uproarious laughter bleeds into my ears as cherry blossoms dance down my arms.

"I'm sorry, Sensei."

"Why lie, Akaashi-kun?"

Glowering, I return to my chair, refusing to dignify Izana's query with a response. He's right, of course. I'm sorry about the blossoms. Kawamura sensei probably suspects as much.

 

* * *

 

Instead of meeting Bokuto after my (thankfully uneventful) check-in with Kawamura sensei on the baseball field to roleplay, then telling our coach through my tears with Bokuto at my side that I can no longer play, both of us jobbing at this juncture, I flee through the front doors of the school for the first time in months. My heart seizes with the knowledge of where I'm bound.

In middle school, I volunteered at Tsukihoshi Home for Boys and Girls. To my immense fortune, so did Bokuto. We took to a kid who wished the universe exploded into nebulae and took him with it so that he might hold dominion over his kingdom. He brought us into his orbit, and we stayed put long after two loving parents adopted him. I haven't forgotten his name: Ushijima Wakatoshi.

My presence, as expected, upends his equilibrium when I quietly edge through the black ivy-trimmed gate into the riotously vibrant garden. Kids around our age gather in a tight circle, braiding one another's hair, teasing one another jovially in never-ending games. Ushijima, trailing a broad hand through his stiff dark hair, assures a pale boy with spiky red hair that I'm no stranger and encourages him back into the circle. 

"What brings you back, Keiji?" he says, an edge of caution in his voice. I open my mouth when a thought stops me.

_Have they ceased?_

A mounting giddiness terrorizes me before a shower of blossoms tumbles down my nose.

Gasping, the red-haired boy jumps to his feet.

"Can he stay, Wakatoshi? Please?"

"Absolutely not. Sit down, Satori." Edging out of his composure faster than I believed possible, Ushijima worries the zipper of his Shiratorizawa blazer. "You need to go, Keiji. I cannot allow any further interruptions of our wellness program." For a fraction of a moment, I catch the dangerous flicker in his eyes, the foreboding blackening of the sky before a downpour. In the same instant, his eyes calm as he returns to the young man, sitting beside him in the circle and redirecting the conversation.

So vain of me, to think I might contribute.

"I'm so sorry," I say to no one. Unseen, I slump through the gate.

Blossoms scatter around me as I hurriedly traverse through the oncoming surge of commuters to my apartment. Businessmen regard my appearance with baffled gawks while high school girls screech to a stop on the way to their part-time jobs, squealing at the sight of an ikemen. Those men belong in front of storefronts entertaining people by wearing glasses and answering vapid questions. If they bothered to befriend me, their miscalculation of my worth as a person might come to light;  _I am Akaashi Keiji and I am worth so much more than my face._

Yet I go on staining my cheeks with tears.

Sniveling, I follow a woman in a voluminous plaid overcoat and her diva Shiba through the entrance of my nondescript apartment building. Meekly, I offer her the number of my floor on the elevator through a strained nasal passage.

"What's got you so sad?" she says. 

Her diva of a Shiba nips at the ragged hem of my grey parka. Flinching, I stare at her with a renewed shock. No one around here straight up asks questions like that, unless you're a psychiatrist trained for five minute consultations immediately followed by prescriptions. She's clearly lived through many an evasion. Her hair defies the oppressive brightness of the elevator with its shimmering white radiance, and a kindness that quickens my heartbeat lingers in the slopes of her smile.

She pulls her vivid pashmina shawl around her neck as she says, "Don't be a stranger, young man. I'm willing to listen." 

As she guides her Shiba behind her and out of the elevator, I am once again awestruck by the people brave enough to look their loneliness in the face and find ways to temper it.

It's this thought that motivates me to open the door to my apartment. Forgetting any announcement of my arrival, my tears evaporate when Bokuto's laughter sings in my ears. Nestled beside my sister on the left side of the living room sofa, with Izana on her right, he cackles at the television as someone screams, " _Zetsubou shitai_!" Sayonara, Zetsubou Sensei, of course. Kotone has morbid tastes, something we don't happen to share.

My blossoms, mirroring my emotions, charge towards them in a fierce flurry of devotional petals. Kicking up her legs, my sister flails them out of her face, remembering the shortness of her plaid skirt and cursing. His cheeks flushed, Izana digs into her shoulder while Bokuto rises, steadily drinking me down with eyes of molten gold dewdrops.

"Someone's due for the biggest bear hug yet." 

My feet moving independent of brain signals, I knit myself into the bottomless warmth of his arms.

"Leaving us out, tsk." Kotone rubs the top of the black cap seated low on Izana's head. Frowning, he wills himself to disappear into the tawny sofa, his striped  white Fukurodani jersey removing that possibility. Over Bokuto's shoulder, I raise a questioning eyebrow. My sister winks, ruffling her tousled dark curls.  _I'm excited for this conversation_.

Breathing the words against my neck, Bokuto says, "Coach let us know come hell or high water, we're combatting the blossoms. We'll use buckets, baskets, boomerangs. Any and all measures to keep you in our family, Captain Akaashi."

"Oh my stars. Bokuto-san, I'm dreaming."

He kisses me, tasting of sweet summertime, breaking up in laughter and affording me the chance to grab him back.

Pulling up her thick white socks, my sister says, "My brother's living in a BL manga." 

Izana nods. "It's his story, though, and it's damn well worth telling."

Coming up for air, I swallow one lone blossom. 


End file.
